


every second dripping off my fingertips

by tosca1390



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon (Manga)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:04:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time breathes between them, a fast-ticking clock of what they have left together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every second dripping off my fingertips

*

Their walk along the reflecting pool has become a daily routine. Her guardians follow twenty paces behind; his are twenty paces ahead. At first, it had been ten and ten, but Serenity had finally intervened. Sometimes Venus could be overzealous, and she liked some space, at least.

So, she walks with him every afternoon. Her mother had suggested it, as a sign of goodwill and faith during the talks. Everyone is watching the Earth Prince, and how he charms her; to everyone’s surprise except for hers and her guardians, she has held her own against the smiles, the touches, the dances. Slowly, he has turned off the constant assault of charm, and she has seen how truly concerned he is over the state of his planet, and how he can help. There’s a truthfulness and an earnestness that he shields from mostly everyone else; qualities that do not become a soldier, she supposes.

But he has earned the affection she has for him, and in turn she has earned respect for more than just her beauty. They have avoided discussing the seriousness of the situation, the fraying binds between their worlds, the inherent distrust between their guardians; but now, just a day away from his departure, it colors her every thought and move. The concerns of her guardians hover at her shoulders, whispering in her ear. Today, though, she is not certain she wants to care.

As they turn the corner around the wide arc of the pool, Endymion tucks her hand more closely into his elbow, his fingers twining into hers as they sit against his ribs. When they had first met three weeks ago, she had walked with a foot between them. He had smirked and tried for her hand over and over. Now, to the outside eye, it looks as if it is respectable, her hand at his elbow. They two are the only ones who know of the binding of their fingers, how hard he holds onto her.

“I leave on the morrow.”

She wets her lips, plucking at the skirt of her pale gown with her free hand. “I am aware, my lord.”

He halts them at the edge of the pool, turning them out to look at the still pale-blue expanse of water. Behind them, she can hear her guardians scuffle to a halt. He leans in to her just the slightest; to anyone else, he would merely be peering into the pool. “I want to see you, Serenity,” he murmurs out of the corner of her mouth. His breath brushes her ear, the stray tendrils of hair there.

She can feel the hint of a flush at her collarbones. Turning her face towards his, she keeps her eyes outwards. “You see me every day.”

“You know what I mean,” he says, voice low in his throat. His fingers tighten around her own.

The moon is still this afternoon, just the faintest breeze. The quiet, usually calming, is unsettling to her today; she feels as if she is edging along some great sort of precipice, a fall from which none of them will come back from. The negotiations, from what she can tell and from what her mother and Luna deem appropriate to tell her, are not going well. There’s a dark sort of seed rising and spawning on Earth, a wild minority that the government and the royals cannot fathom or please, and their anger is directed towards the skies.

Yes, she knows what he means. She is not dull, or simple, or unaware of the tension thickening between them, the look in his eyes when he watches her, the worry lining her guardians’ faces.

“During the ball,” she says softly, slipping her hand from his grasp and his elbow. “Find me.”

She steps away from him, towards her guardians. He bows, eyes dark and heavy on her. With a curtsy, she walks back towards the palace. She can feel his gaze on her back as she leaves.

“What was that all about?” Venus asks, her hand resting as always on the hilt of her sword as they walk.

Serenity smiles faintly, shrugging. “I imagine the prince is feeling sentimental over leaving; he has accomplished so little, after all,” she murmurs, her fingers knotting in the billows of her skirt.

At her other side, Jupiter lets out a short laugh lacking amusement. “Yes. I’m certain he had one goal at the top of his list that will not be happening,” she says.

The color curls up her throat, warm and telling. Serenity picks up her pace. “I, of course, was speaking to the ongoing talks,” she says with a coy smile, glancing at her guardians.

They smile back at her, but their eyes linger and worry at her, especially Venus. She uses the excuse of the ball and the need to rest to duck away from their prying eyes. It is too hard to keep anything to herself with them around. She wants to tell them; they are her family, after all. But the tentative connection with Endymion is fragile and precious and still so new and confusing; she doesn’t want a discoloration of it yet. She wants more _time_.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t have that luxury.

*

It feels almost too easy to slip away, but she manages.

She has danced all evening, purposefully. Partly, it is to tease him. Serenity has felt his eyes on her all night, since she entered the grand ballroom with at her mother’s side. She likes the distance public arenas forces onto them. If he pays her too much attention, there will be gossip; too little, and it is a political issue. So the balls and the public shows serve as a test for her, of his resilience and want, and her own.

He dances with her twice; the third dance and the eighth. By then, her feet are already aching, but she is determined to be able to demonstrate enough exhaustion to warrant an early exit. She can be quite difficult when she wants to be; people don’t seem to think that about her. Certainly, she is a princess; but she is a warrior if need be.

The eighth dance, she rests her weight on his arms. Her gown, cool sleek silver tonight, is heavy with skirts. “Perhaps you should rest, princess,” he says, his voice falling just under the rise of the music. This is how they speak together, under their breaths and in the rise and fall of other voices and sounds and the swelling of lutes and strings.

“We both know a princess never rests,” she says lightly. His hold on her hand is light, proper; she makes up for it with her fingers curled into the creases of his armor, pressing into the warmth of his body. The flat of his palm just grazes the small of her back. “Besides, the more I dance, the sooner I will have to retire.”

His eyes, dark blue in the crystalline lights of the ballroom, flash and narrow on her face. “Perhaps you’re right,” he says quietly, sweeping her in a wide arc around the floor.

She glances around as they turn, catching her guardians’ glances in turns. At her mother’s insistence, they have all dressed in their planet gowns for the occasion, including Venus. She smiles at each of them in turn. “Unless you have no need to see me any longer, my lord,” she says archly.

His hand tightens around hers just for a moment, the arm at her back pulling her closer than proper for a brief turn. Dark hair falls across his brow as he leans forward. Color warms her throat, her face; her pulse thuds at her wrists. “I do need to see you,” he says, a hitch in his voice.

Her breath catches; she so wants to kiss him right there, to shake off the restraints of proper society and rank and do as she _feels_ and not as she must. But the music fades, and they step away from each other as polite applause builds from the surrounding guests. She immediately feels the loss of his skin on hers, his warmth.

“Then soon, I’ll be waiting,” she says softly under the echoes of the claps, her gaze fixed on him.

His hands clench at his side, a twitch of anticipation. She has learned to read him quickly; he is all bright charm and charisma, but he keeps his true feelings in check, with just the faintest indications in the lines of his face, the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his hands.

Air thick in her lungs, she dips into a curtsy. He bows. She finds another partner, a noble with Endymion’s entourage, and does not dance again with him in the night.

By the fifteenth dance, Serenity is fully able to press her advantage with her mother and her guardians.

“I have danced with everyone necessary, and have made my rounds with the diplomats. I will be much more pleasant in the morning for their departure if I can sleep now,” she pleads, her hands linked in front of her.

Her mother, pale and weary, glances her over and smiles slightly. The dark circles under her eyes tell Serenity more than anything else. “Of course, my heart. Your guardians—“

“They can stay though, Mother,” Serenity says, trying not to speak too eagerly. “They should have the evening to enjoy themselves. They have made friends with some of the entourage from Earth, and I wouldn’t want to pull them away yet.”

Her ears burn with the lie; luckily, as her mother looks at to the wide expanse of the cool white marble ballroom, all four of her guardians are engaged with Endymion’s generals in conversation at the far end of the room. “Then I will see you bright and early in the morning,” her mother says at last, her hand cool on Serenity’s.

Serenity bends to kiss her mother’s cheek, squeezing her hand gently. “You will,” she says softly, dropping into a formal curtsy before she slips out of the ballroom without any more fanfare than that. Her mother will explain to the girls; she is alone for the night now.

The marble hallways are cool and dark. All of the activity is in the grand ballroom. Outside the entrance to her chambers, Serenity waits; it is not something she is accustomed to, and not something he should become used to. Tonight, however, it is the last night they have before he goes back to Earth, and everything becomes less certain. He will find her, he wants to find her; so, she will wait.

There is something to be said to the foolishness of love, she thinks, leaning against the wall. Feet aching, she slips off her shoes; the marble is cool and soothing on her toes, the flat of her feet. She sighs, toeing her shoes to the side and smoothing her hands through her long tails of hair. The pins in her hair are beginning to settle into her scalp. Sometimes she wishes there was a legitimate claim to using the power of the crystal on little things, such as her hair; then, she feels silly. She never tells anyone these thoughts, of course.

“It appears I’ve found a princess out of her chambers.”

She glances up at the sound of Endymion’s voice. He stands near the end of the hall, at the intersection of two corridors. He’s without his sword, without his armor; he looks strangely normal, in the everyday clothes of his planet. It catches at her heart.

Pushing off the wall, she straightens, her fingers curling into the smooth silk of her skirt. The hall is dark, his face half-shadowed. A shiver curls up her spine. “It is my castle, my lord. I can go where I please,” she says.

He walks towards her slowly, hair falling across his brow. Her fingers itch to touch it, brush it from his skin. She remembers the few stolen kisses from the past three weeks, the feel of his warm hands at the span of her waist and the curve of her spine. “And this is where you want to be?” he asks, a quiet heaviness curling through his voice.

She wets her mouth and reaches out towards him, her fingers catching in his. There’s so little she feels in control of in the course of her life; this is one, and it is a simpler decision than she imagined it would be. Even with the voices of her family and guardians whispering in her ear, she cannot escape the press of her heart in the shape of his name. He has earned it, and she wants him.

“You cannot stay the night,” she says instead as she pulls him into her chambers. “The girls, they—“

“Tuck you safely in?” he teases with an arch of his brow. But his mouth is still serious. The air is thick with the somber tension of their intentions. It feels decidedly _normal_ , unadorned with the regular decorations of their royal lives.

“Something like that. They’re overprotective,” she says with a smile as she shuts the door behind them and locks it securely. Her room lays vast before them, with the glass doors to the balcony open to let in whatever silent breeze may come.

“It’s their duty. My generals are the same,” he says, walking in a slow exploratory arc around the room. They edge away from the pristine bed.

Her toes curl against the cool marble. “It’s not quite the same, Endymion,” she murmurs, thinking of the stories from the Earth court, the allowances his generals make when it comes to certain situations.

“You mean the women,” he says, all amusement.

She looks away, moving towards her vanity. “I only mean to say that it’s different for princesses,” she says softly, her hands reaching up to one bun.

In a moment, he is behind her. She stills at the feel of him so close, his chest grazing her back. “May I?” he asks softly, his fingers ghosting hers.

A flush crawls up her throat. She is acutely aware of her bare shoulders, the curve of the neckline of her gown. Slowly she drops her hands to her side; her fingers tuck into the folds of her skirt.

His fingers smooth through her hair, plucking pin after pin and reaching in front of her to place them on the vanity’s surface. The blood rushes back to her scalp and she nearly sighs with relief. Her hair, freed, tumbles along her shoulder and back, falling across her cheek. Her dress is just shades darker than the silver-blonde of her hair.

“I know it’s different for princesses. I know it’s especially different for you,” he says quietly, mouth near her ear. “Serenity, I will leave right now if you would rather.”

She swallows past the lump in her throat and turns to face him. This is the most serious she has ever seen him, mouth even, eyes dark as the oceans she has seen from books on his planet. Everything is still and silent around them. After a moment, she curls her hands into the front of his shirt, tilting her head up. “You’ve seen my hair down,” she says softly.

He leans into her, his forehead grazing hers. His hands fall to her waist, fingers gathering in the smooth fabric of her gown. “I’ve wanted to very much,” he says.

“You’re the first person to, other than…” she trails off, her fingers trembling slightly against his chest. Taking a deep breath, she rises up on her toes and presses her mouth to his, smooth and dry and brief. “No. I don’t want you to leave.”

Grip tightening on her waist, he edges her back against the lip of the vanity and kisses her once more. She shuts her eyes and opens herself up to her, to the warmth pulsing in her chest and middle, the ache in her veins. Her mouth opens under his and she arches into the hard frame of his chest. Time breathes between them, a fast-ticking clock of what they have left together.

“Trust me,” he murmurs against her mouth.

She nods and slides her arms around his neck. In a swift movement, he lifts her to a seat on the surface of her vanity. His hands curve to the line of her jaw, his fingers threading through her hair as he tucks it back from her face. For a moment, she can’t catch her breath.

“Are you—“

“You really should stop asking questions I’ve already answered,” she says impatiently, voice just a bit higher. Her fingers slide through his hair near the nape of his neck, pulling him close. “Really, Endymion. Where is the confident headstrong prince I’ve heard such stories of?” she teases.

His thumbs brush along the line of her mouth, the bow of her lips. “Not everything you’ve heard is completely true,” he murmurs.

She smiles slightly, tugging him closer. Her skirt hitches up as her legs fall apart, her knees at the sides of his hips. “I believe you’ll see the same is true for me,” she says as she pulls him down for another kiss. She can taste the wine from the ball on his tongue, sweet and tart.

His hands fall through the smooth lengths of her hair to her shoulders. Fingers trailing at the bared expanse of her collarbones, he curves over her, tongue sliding against hers. She slips her hands down his chest to the loose belt at his hips. He is half-hard against her thigh; she can feel it through her gown and his breeches.

“You’re a quick one, little rabbit,” he murmurs, mouth trailing down her throat as she tilts her head back. His hands fall to the curve of her breast and then down the length of her middle to her thighs.

She laughs through a soft moan, plucking at his belt. “People assume I do not know things,” she says, voice low and sweet.

He smiles against her throat, gathering folds of her skirt in his hands and inching it up towards her hips. “Yet you do.”

“I do pay attention in my lessons most of the time,” she retorts, her head falling back. She releases her hold on his hips and the undone belt there to press her heels onto the vanity for stability. His hands skim up along the bare skin of her thighs to her hips. The air is cool and bracing on her bare skin.

“Still,” he says, his mouth soft on her jaw. “I’ll do my best to bring you no harm.”

She meets his gaze, steady and even. Her breathing is short, her pulse races, but her limbs are steady and her heart is true. “I know you will,” she says softly. “You love me, after all.”

The fingers on her upper thighs twitch and grip into the skin. She bites her lip and shifts, the silk of her gown riding up her waist. “I do, do I?” he asks after a moment, a smile playing at his mouth.

“I believe you do.”

A hand slips between her thighs, to the slick heat there. She moans softly, her toes curling as heat shudders through her skin. “And you love me, then,” he says, stuttering over the words faintly.

Shifting into his touch, she hitches a thigh across his hip to allow greater purchase for his questing fingers. “I do,” she says, plainly and honestly. Color spreads from her collarbones to her cheeks, but she does not break his gaze. There are moments of truth to stand behind; this is one of them.

Something in his entire body and gaze softens. “I do,” he repeats before he kisses her, open and warm. It is more than a confession; it feels to her as if they have promised something, a plighting of troth.

His long fingers, callused from battle and swordplay, stroke her slowly and evenly, his thumb at her clit. Sighing, she shut her eyes. Her fingers curl into the hard marble of the vanity, sweat sliding down the arch of her spine. It’s a slow build of warmth and heat, coiling in her middle and sweeping out through her body. She cannot catch her breath, but she doesn’t mind.

Then, when she is wet and wanting and short of breath, he slips his fingers from her and reaches around for the laces of her gown. His mouth bites at her jaw and throat, breath hot on her skin. She shudders and tugs at the loose tunic and slides off his belt. They are half-undone and nearly desperate as he picks her up, laces undone, and carries her towards the bed.

Every moment is a lingering thing; the touch of his mouth to her breast, her stomach; the curl of her tentative fingers at his length. His hair falls and brushes her face as he curves over her, hard between the soft wet of her thighs. He murmurs her name against her skin with such warmth and such love that she nearly begins to cry; there must be more to them than a secret night and failed negotiations, she thinks before everything breaks apart inside her. She digs her fingers into his shoulders; she wants to mark him, so he remembers and _knows_. His mouth bites at her skin, in the secret shadowed places; she knows he marks her in the same vein.

It’s later, as she picks up the loose pieces of her gown and watches him dress, that he pierces the subject they have been assiduously avoiding.

“I have to see you,” he says as he catches her at the waist, his mouth catching on her throat.

She shivers, wetting her lips. “I know.”

“I don’t—I don’t know how things will be left, once we leave,” he says, brow furrowed. “There’s a bizarre sort of resistance to negotiations that I can’t seem to combat, and the alliance—“

“I’ll talk to the girls,” she says, interrupting him quietly. Her hands fall to his chest, covered again. “I’ll come to you.”

“That’s dangerous,” he says, eyes dark and set on hers.

She plucks at the fabric of his shirt, leaning up to mouth at the line of his jaw. “It’s easier for me to come to you than it is the other way around. You know that,” she says firmly. “That’s what we’ll do.”

He frames her face in his hand, his fingertips light on her cheek. “I love you,” he says after a moment, color rising on his cheeks.

She smiles, a hard burn beginning at the back of her eyes. “I love you too,” she says before she kisses him, sweet and open and lingering. It is their real goodbye, before the pomp and ceremony of tomorrow.

He leaves after that. The ball is breaking up; she can hear the guests leaving through the courtyards, their voices echoing in the vast silence of the night. She bathes, puts away her gown, and is straightened up and curled into bed by the time Venus slips into her chamber. She is sore and feels the marks of his mouth on her thighs and shoulders, but it is a pleasant reminder. She can still feel his mouth on hers, warm and wanting.

“You were tired?” Venus asks, a slim hand resting on the hip of her orange gown. In the dim light, Serenity can see the skepticism on her face.

For a moment, Serenity thinks of confessing all, the words tumbling over themselves on her tongue. She is alive and thrilled to each nerve with love and longing; she wants to share it with them, to have their support and their love. But he is still on the planet, and Venus could easily kill him and get away with it.

 _Wait until he leaves_ , she thinks to herself as she looks up at Venus from the safety of her bed, ensconced in the linens. _It’s safer that way_.

“You saw me. I danced all night,” she says after a moment, yawning through it.

“Yes, you did,” Venus murmurs, mouth drawn down in a frown. She doesn’t believe her; Serenity knows them all well-enough to read them. But, the older woman just nods, and wishes her a pleasant evening. It will be a conversation for tomorrow, and the next day, and however many days and weeks afterwards.

Tomorrow she will bid him farewell and school her emotions until she is alone. Tonight, she will dream of a future together, joined for years and stretching out into wide open space. They are dreams not of princes and princess, but of living.

*


End file.
